Can Friendship Mend all Wounds
by EchoingDaydreams
Summary: Draco Malfoy begins his last year at Hogwarts. Suffering from depression and self harm tendencies, a fear to return home and resentment towards the Golden Trio, can he make it through another year, or will he finally let his guard down and allow someone to help him. Even if they aren't who he would have expected. Dromione/Dark!Draco/Hinny
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One:

Hogwarts sat proudly on a rolling pasture, a permanent fixture in the rocky landscape. Moonlight cast splinters of silver over the quiet castle. The sky hung heavy, thick with stars like dewdrops, stepping-stones to new lands and distant places. The dark abyss of evergreen pines and grey oaks swayed in the caressing wind outside, as a soft patter of rain began to hum on Hogwarts roofs. The lake that encompassed the Slytherin dorms echoed a silent, green light against the black, paneled walls. Heavy, ivy green drapes fell from the high ceiling, and hard, black leather couches surrounded the somber ash and amber remains of the previously roaring fire, set back in a grand, stone fireplace. The slow, ominous shadows of passing fish by the dorms windows, like slugs within thick, green slime, made the common room itself feel as if submerged, completely cut off from reality. The steady flick of their tails sent boomerang patterns of reflecting light into the common room where Draco Malfoy sat. His blonde hair was messy, untamed and mattered. A soft shadow of stubble was toning his sculpted jaw. He still wore his Syltherin uniform; his tie hung loose upon a half unbuttoned white shirt, which he had rolled the sleeves up, leaving his scarred wrists to catch the same silver colour of the diffused moonlight. His robes had been cast to the side, messily displayed over the side table.

_'You have diss-a-pointed us. Again! _

_I am beginning to believe, Draco, that you are doing this on purpose. _

_Is that what you want. DRACO! Look at me when I am speaking to you!_

_You rude, insolent, boy!'_

_Lucius' hand, endowed with heavy silver rings, violently cracked across Draco's face. _

_'You are a pathetic excuse for a son!' _

_'I-I'm sorry'_

_'Stop your whining. Crucio!'_

_Draco withered on the black wooden floors. His entire body screamed. His heart vibrated as one massive pulse through his body, as every cell in his being was twisted and churned. _

_'I hope, you have learnt your lesson' Lucius said, picking his sons head up from the floor, briefly examining the running slice of skin just below his eye, before pushing his head back onto the ground, and stalking out of the grand hall. _

_'Draco!' Narcissa said, running over to him_

_'Don't, don't' you dare touch me' he said, pulling himself up off the floor. He spat a thick, clogged mass of blood as he stood. The wood was so dark you could barely see it. Narcissa held her hands a few centimeters from her torso, wanting to caress the boy, but not knowing how. _

_'Draco, just… let me, can I…'_

_'Narcissa. Just, leave me be' he said, and pulled his hunched, cut up frame from the hall towards his chambers. _

He no longer noticed the pain. He didn't even realize he was pressing the silver blade across his skin until he felt light headed. He looked down at his left arm, now covered in fresh, long slits. They spanned from the inner side of his elbow to the end of his wrist. Close to thirty, identical red lines, some deeper than others, but all seeping velvet red blood. A pool of it had collected itself on his porcelain skin. It had begun to run, long streams of raw emotion, down the underside of his arm, leaking onto the couch and, unfortunately, staining his skirt. The shadows and dead light that passed over his eyes kept Draco in a trance, his mind set on numbed delusion. There was nothing left in his head. No screaming. No memories. No nightmares or taunts or faults or fuck ups. He was completely silent. Void of all emotion, his eyes lay grey green and dead. Tears no longer visited him.

With a face set to stone, he pulled the box of tissues from the side table towards him. Steadily, practiced, he pulled out three sets of five layered tissues. The first he used to soak the crimson from his arm. The second to wipe the seat down, and the third to re-place the well and truly soaked first set on his arm. He grabbed his robes and wrapped them over his now chilled frame as he walked to his room. Draco then recovered a roll of bandages and tape that hid on top of his wardrobe, stored away in a secret compartment. He wrapped his arm tightly, wincing every now and then when the pressure caught him off guard. When he replaced the bandages, he retrieved his pack of '_Old Jones Tame Tobacco_' cigarettes. The little cardboard casing displayed a smiling, sexy wizard, reclining on a leather seat. The picture cast her leaning back, laughing, and pulling in the cigarette for a drag, sat up and crossed her legs, blew the smoke then a kiss, towards the buyer.

Draco quickly pulled a black, hoodie jacket over himself, shoved his feet into a pair of expensive boots, and walked back out, through the green-lit common room, heading for the gargoyle door. Knocking three times above its head, then two below, he whispered _effugere_. The gargoyle sunk back in on its foundation, and with a crunching sound of stone on stone, slid to the side, revealing a cobbled, cobwebbed tunnel.

It stank of mold and dampness, and dripped frost bitten water droplets onto his head and back.

"Lumos," he lit his wand, and felt along the wall for the pressing stone. It was three shades darker than the other stones, and in a perfect circle. If you weren't looking for it, you wouldn't notice it. Finally finding it, he pressed it, and the gargoyle behind him closed. Off he went, the blue light of his wand his only means of comfort, stuck underground in the damp and dark. His footsteps echoed as he began to run down the tunnel, splashing puddles of dirty water as he went. It wasn't until he was finally outside, surrounded by the crisp air and haze of rain that he could finally breath.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter two.

He took out his _Old Jones_, placed one in his mouth, and with a flick of his fingers, a small flame appeared, sitting on the top of his thumb. He lit his cigarette, and breathing in deeply, he held the smoke in, letting it settle on his lungs and seep its deadly yet divine goodness into his system. His shoulder's relaxed, his neck no longer hurt, and for a moment, everything was calm. As he looked out over the dense forest, taking in breath by breath, he fiddled with the bandage, and checked to see how badly he was bleeding. Red lines were seeping through the material, beginning to join together into one main stain. Just like every small, depressive thing in Draco's life, eventually their lines blurred and joined together, soon making his life one, big, stain. He shook his head, disappointed that the cuts weren't able to completely shut out that voice.

_Then again, _he thought, _at least it's not screaming at you._

After having his first cigarette for the night, he took off down the path he always walked when his mind wasn't still. It's a winding, gravel pathway, leading from the outskirts of Hogwarts into the forest. Creaking trees with deep-set roots lean down as if trying to touch their toes, sending the few blossoms that the trees sprouted to create a picturesque walkway. When the glow of the moon no longer penetrated the close-knit trees, Draco muttered "Lumos," and continued on his way.

And as he did each time, he continued down the path till he found the rose bush. It is to the left of this bush, about fifty steps, that a small gravesite can be found. A family that had once lived this far out, consisting of father, mother, grandmother, daughter, daughter two, daughter three, son one, and grandson one. Each had a small, chipped, moss covered grave, delicately placed so that the moon shone down on them, and through the trees you can just look out over the lake. This was Draco's place. He didn't know whom the family had been, he didn't want to know. He didn't really care. All he knew was that he'd spent at least two nights a week out here by the graveyard, talking to his dead friends. He would tell the family everything, how school was, what was happening at home, his father, his mother, Voldemort. Anything that came to mind during his endless amble would rocket out and soak into the soil. The soft grey stones, their decaying corners and sanded away memorials were a soft comfort. A peaceful reprieve from his normal, stress induced days.

But today he didn't feel like talking. He stood, hovering close to the mother's grave, looking out to the lake. His mind was in two places. One was successfully holding a strong, brick wall up, while the other was trying to tear it down, and let 'emotion' come storming through. He could remember when he used to cut to stop feeling. Now he wished he could feel something, anything at all; sad, or happy, or fondness, or self-achieving brilliance. Anything that _wasn't_ what he had been feeling (or more the lack of) for the last eight months. He was either so numb that nothing would stir him; no jokes, no teasing, nothing made him feel. Nothing at all, at least, not until the memories of his Dad played through his head, late at night, when he was in the shower looking over his scars, when he's in class and realizes he doesn't understand, when he's walking to the common room. He'll suddenly be hit with this pure, white flame rage. It would burst through him like a boiling fire, making his lips curl, his fists tighten and his mind set to one thing, and one thing only. Destruction. Unfortunately, the normal teasing or planning out how to kill his father wasn't cutting it. So, he turned on himself, and, ironically, it turned out cutting would cut it.

He stood, smoking, for half an hour. The cold breeze finally reached him, whipping through the trees, screaming like ghosts, and passing him took any warmth he had felt previously.

"Time to head back," He said, putting his hand on the mother's grave, "I'll see you guys next time." He reached the common room within twenty minutes, and sluggishly walked the steps up to his single living quarters. Exhaustion suddenly overtook him like a swallowing tidal wave. It came crashing down on him, and as he fell onto his bed, he fell to sleep.

"DRACO! Wake up!" Pansy yelled, turning on all the lights and pulling at his robes. This was a fairly normal routine. Pansy, though an absolute bitch, understood Draco better than anyone. She also knew that to get him up for school, she had to make a racket. He could feel her tugging at him, trying to jolt him awake.

"Wait, what… _Draco_? DRACO!" her voice was suddenly hysteric, high pitched, and as his mind began to turn on, he realized she was looking at his blood stained shirt. He sat up slightly, resting on his elbows.

"Thank God, I'd thought you had died!" She replied. She was already dressed in her school gear; ready for the day ahead. She took a seat in-between his spread out legs, waiting for him to tell her everything. She looked behind her and flicked at the door, shutting it.

"Can I see?" she asked. Draco didn't even second-guess it. Pansy really did know _everything _about him. He pulled his arm out towards her, showing her the bloodied bandage.

"Draco…" She hushed, as she steadily unwound the material. The cuts were now a bright red, and stood out like blood on a white sheet.

"Merlins beard, Draco. These are deep. There are so many," She continued, turning his arm around to check that there weren't any others. She leaned forward, and planted a kiss on the palm on his hand. She then grabbed the bandages from his secret compartment -she was the only one who knew about it- and re-wrapped them.

"Robes all day then?"

"I guess so," Draco replied, running his hand through his hair.

"I will talk to you in a bit, I have first years to terrorize. And a morning quickie with Blaize,"

"Thank you for sharing,"

"You are welcome!" She yelled, leaving Draco in his room alone. He pulled his way out of the warm, enclosing blanket, into the cold day full of reality. How he hated it. Grabbing his uniform and a spare towel, he entered his bathroom for a shower. Turning the shower to scolding hot, he stepped in and let the heat consume him. Boiling hot water pelted down on his head, running through his hair, onto his face and catching on his chin, falling as one to the black marble floor. As he rubbed soap over his warm body, he carefully inspected his wounds. Close to a hundred silver lines laced his skin. They covered his left arm, stomach and both thighs. Soft little silver scars, each holding a secret and a lie. How he hated them. But as his mind spun, he came to the conclusion that he hated them so much solely because he secretly loved seeing them. He loved looking down at them and knowing the pain that they caused. Knowing the worry that others would feel. They would know how he suffers, and suffer through trying to help him too.

Draco flicked the shower off, dried his limbs, and dressed in a long white shirt, black pants and his bellowing Slytherin robes. He shoved his feet into his school shoes, and went on his way to the grand hall for breakfast, Blaise and Goyle not far behind. Those two lapped at his heels like sick puppies.

"Where's Pansy?" Draco asked, allowing the two to catch up, but never walk in front of him.

"Having a shower. She's a frisky one, she is," Blaise replied, a massive smile spread across his face. Draco knew, having fucked her at least five times. These were rough, quick, hormone driven sessions, never resulting in sleep or tender kisses, so technically they never 'slept' together.

The doors of the hall were left open, and a chorus of dulled voices echoed out of the golden, swallowing room. Draco, Blaise and Goyle walked in, eying the famous trio. The golden boy with his minions. Harry was sitting by Ginny, awkwardly making small talk. They'd occasionally catch each other looking towards the other, and blushingly smile, turning their heads away quickly.

'_Pathetic_' Draco thought.

He strode over to the Gryffindor table, an evil grin slowly appearing over his smug face. He saw Harry look angrily over to Hermione, who shook her head. Ron continued to eat, but didn't look up from the table.

"Mornin' Potter, Weazley,"

"What do you want Malfoy?" Hermione asked, flicking her head up to try stare him down. Her eyes pierced into him. He couldn't help staring back, and, remarkably –_stupidly_- they caught him off-guard. They were like large, round moons, with a center of hazelnut and flecks of gold, and thick lashes lined the rim. Her skin was a pale olive in colour, and her frizzy, ochre brown hair tumbled around her face and down her back.

"I wasn't talking to you, mudblood!" he spat back. His voice was vile, filled with pure hatred. Hermione's jaw set in place, a defying block of his insults. She perced her lips slightly, before looking back down at her food.

"Shut up Malfoy," Ron said,

"Ooh! Haha! Weazle the sewer rat. You angry Weaselbee? Gonna go cry to your mummy?"

"Fuck off Malfoy. If you're here to stroke your ego it's not going to work," Harry said, shrugging his shoulders. He was far too tired to care.

"Quiet Potter. Didn't your Mummy and Daddy teach you anything?" Draco spat. Blaise and Goyle snickered behind him.

"That's quite enough now, Mr. Malfoy. I suggest you find a place to sit and have a little breakfast before classes begin." He calming words came from a looming Albus Dumbledore, who stood behind the Slytherin trio.

Draco turned his nose up, and muttered "See you in class, Potter, Weasley, Granger," then stalked off to the Slytherin bench.

"I 'taught your Da-ad was gone do sumfin' about old Dumbledore?" Goyle said, making a thunderous smack when he sat down.

"Yeah, isn't Snape going to take over soon. I'm getting sick of that old bucket of bones always two steps behind us,"

"My Father has a plan, don't worry." Draco said, ending the conversation. The thing is, Draco was worried. He was very, very worried.


End file.
